Ever since they were little, Sam had stared at Dean. As time went by, Dean had learned what each shade of stare meant. There was the older-brother adoration stare, the I’m disappointed in you, Dean, stare, the I’m not laughing at you except I totally am, stare, and the one Dean hated the most, the I’m going to talk to you about feelings stare. At the moment, Dean wasn’t looking at Sam, because he had pulled that stare out as soon as Bobby had left and, fuck me, he was gonna have to talk about it.

Sam leaned in earnestly, and fuck, Dean was glad they were alone in the kitchen. “Dean—just make a move, already.”

Sam pursed his lips and Dean rolled his eyes. Bitchface number 7, You’re being obtuse on purpose, and it’s not funny, Dean. “If you were mooning any harder you’d have phases, Dean.”

Dean scowled, and pointed a finger at Sam. “I. Am. Not. Mooning. I ain’t gay.” And he wasn’t. Just because, sometimes, when he was feeling particularly needy, he picked up men instead of women, that didn’t make him gay. He loved women, the way the curved, the way they smelled, just as much as he loved the firm familiarity of a man. But--shit, did Sam know? About those “special bar” nights? Did it slip out, somehow? Because, as easy as it was to do, there was no way Dean was going to talk about it.

Sam backed off, but his eyes were triumphant. “I didn’t say you were.”

Dean blinked. Did he miss something? “You just told me to have gay angel sex!”

Sam just crossed his arm, little brother smug. “I told you to do something. You went to sex.”

“Not always,” Sam said. “You could have a very fulfilling platonic homoromantic relationship.”

Dean deflated a little. What did that even mean? Whatever it was, he wasn’t doing it. He was pretty sure it meant no sex, and really, that wasn’t an option. Which meant that if he did ‘do something’ it would have to involve admitting to the things he wanted. With Cas. “…you’ve been talking to Kurt.”

Sam’s smile gentled, and if Sam was sitting closer Dean would have punched him in the shoulder for the way it made Dean’s insides warm, just a little, to know he had Sam’s support. “I don’t care where you are on the spectrum of sexuality, Dean. You’ll always be my special snowflake.”

Dean snorted. Some things, though, just went too far. “How am I the gay one?” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Cas walk past. His eyes followed Cas’s ass up the stairs. He only realized he was staring when Sam started laughing.

“Go get ‘em, Tiger.”

“Bitch,” Dean muttered, standing.

“Jerk.”

Dean climbed up the stairs to the bedroom. He found Cas standing at the window, looking down at the yard. Dean closed the door behind him.

Cas looked tiny in his cast-off clothes. The jeans belonged to Dean, cuffed and belted. The shirt was Sam’s. There was several days’ worth of stubble on his face, and in the shadow by the window, Dean couldn’t help but see the Human Cas from the future-that-wasn’t. Only his eyes, pained and tired, yes, but clear, kept Dean from thinking too hard about that Cas.

“I am,” Cas said. “Humans see so very little compared to angels. In this body I am blind and deaf.”

Dean scratched his neck. He’d been—not happy, but certainly not fucking miserable—that Cas was becoming human. Dean had always felt that humans were the best choice, and nothing in the last few years had made him think otherwise. But hearing Cas talk like this poked at that sore place inside Dean.

“I would not change it,” Cas said. “The things I see now are better for it.”

“Like what?” Dean asked, more for something to say than anything else. It showed; his voice was harsh in the near quiet and he winced at the sound. “What can you see?”

“You, Dean,” Cas said, turning, at last, from the window. “I see you.”

And something in Dean broke, something he had been holding back for years; before Cas died, before Sammy went to Hell and came back in pieces, before Dean spent forty years in the pit. Then there were arms around him and a presence that out-shined his shit-tarnished life, a hand lay over the scar on his shoulder, perfect fit, and Cas said:

“I have always seen you.”

And Dean looked up and saw through his tears, Cas smiling at him, and fuck him if it wasn’t the most beautiful thing Dean had ever seen. His heart beat fast with so much that he would be mortified to have anyone else know he felt, because he had always felt them so keenly and his eyes were so expressive, but this was Cas. Cas who had seen his naked soul and pulled his righteous ass out of hell itself and believed in him so much he fell for him—twice. If Cas could do all that, could be all that for him, why the hell was Dean just staring.

Cas’s smile widened, like he had heard that last thought. Fuck, maybe he had. Who knew what powers were still kicking with the last dregs of Cas’s angel-mojo rattling around. So to make his intentions clear, just in case, he thought hard about the two of them naked on the bed; the feel of skin on skin, the fabric of the blankets, the drip of sweat.

Cas’s eyes fluttered and he moaned, low in the back of his throat, and that was it; it was all she wrote. Dean was gone. His hands thrust into Cas’s hair, pulling his head closer, tilting it and kissing his mouth, still parted from that moan and Dean didn’t waste any time. Teeth and tongue and moaning on his own; Dean had been dreaming of kissing Cas for years and he tried to do it all at once, felt frantic with the need. And Cas—

Cas kissed him back. Dean had expected it to be like kissing a statue at first, at least until he could coax Cas into relaxing and just going for it. Then, he had seen Cas kiss Ruby, and while it hurt his heart, it had done wonders for his fantasy. Because now he had seen Cas get dirty, and Cas was kissing like that now, only it was better because it was with him, and there was desperation there and Dean had to wonder just how long Cas had wanted this, too.

Dean pulled back with a gasp, licking his lips to chase the taste of Cas’s mouth and he stared. Cas looked up at him, eyes lidded and heavy, the ends of him mouth twitching into a smile. Very. Slowly. Cas dragged his tongue over his bottom lip. Dean felt his brain stutter and short. He shook himself.

“We should talk about this,” He said, and what? Cas was right there, ready and willing, and he wanted to talk? But he did, goddamnit. He wanted—He needed this to be okay, to be something they could—they could keep doing. And—Cas was laughing at him.

“Dean,” Cas said, and woah. Cas’s voice was a sexy rumble at the worst of times, but when it was bubbling around a laugh it did something to Dean’s insides. “Me too.”

“Stop reading my fucking mind.” Dean muttered against Cas’s lips.

“Stop thinking so loud,” Cas countered, and licked his way in with his tongue and then it was Dean’s time to groan because—where did he learn that?!

Then Cas pulled Dean by his belt-loops. Dean followed trying to pull Cas closer until he realized Cas was leading them to the bed and Dean was all over that.

“Oh, yeah,” Dean said, and now he was the one moving them, trying to push Cas backward and pull him forward and take off his shirt and kiss him all at the same time. Somehow Cas, maybe through lingering Angel-mojo, managed to lose his shirt and jeans—Christ, no boxers—and get to work on Dean’s before they hit the bed and despite Dean’s frantic grabbing.

Dean sat back cursing as he fights with his boots, and he almost lost the thread when Cas arched, stretching out on the bed, gloriously naked and, yeah, Dean’s fucked his share of pretty people, but nobody has ever made Dean this hard just by fucking breathing.

His hands shook as he pulled his pants off, and he steadied them against Cas’ sides, gripping tight when Cas’s head fell back and then there was nothing to do but lick a thick stripe up the side of Cas’s neck, feel him shudder beneath him, and bite just over his pulse to hear Cas cry out sharply.

“Dean!” Cas whined, high and needy, and his hands pulled at Dean’s hips, slipping over the smooth skin, trying to get him closer and Dean was there, pushing closer, reaching one hand between them to fist Cas’s cock and he chuckled against Cas’s neck at the choked off noise he made, pulling back to watch Cas’s as Dean started to slowly stroke.

Cas’s face was red, contorted in pleasure, eyes dark and they fluttered shut when Dean twisted his hand, flicking his thumb of the head with each upstroke, smearing precum and making Cas twitch and shudder.

“Cas,” Dean groaned, thrusting against Cas’ thigh. Cas took the hint, and grabbed Dean’s cock, forcing a grunt from Dean. Cas’s hand was warm and strong and softer than any man’s hand had a right to be, but it was good, so good, and it was Cas, and Dean could feel his orgasm gathering in the base of his spine and he’d be embarrassed—he hadn’t shot his load this quickly since he was a teenager—but he was too far gone to care.

On the next stroke he opened his fingers and moaned as their cocks slid together, tightening his hand around them both. “C’mon,” he muttered and Cas’s hand joined his and his breath stuttered and that was it, he was gone, shaking and coming over their fists, and Cas was bucking under him and he was coming, too and it was the hottest thing Dean had ever seen.

Dean’s arm finally gave out, and he hit the bed and rolled, remembering at the last second not to land on Cas and Cas pulled and Dean let himself be moved, draping over Cas. He couldn’t do anything but pant for a long minute before he started giggling. He had just had sex with Cas in Bobby’s guestroom and he was pretty sure someone had screamed at the end and since it sounded like Cas’s name, he was pretty sure it was him. After a moment, Cas joined in, low chuckling that made Dean’s warm-fuzzy-post-orgasm-haze grow. Shit, he was probably going to get hard every time Cas laughed now.

Sam looked up at the ceiling at the first thump. He narrowed his eyes. He was familiar enough with Dean’s habits, and really, how couldn’t he be? that he was pretty sure he knew what kind of noise it was.

When the first moan echoed faintly through the kitchen, Sam bit his lip to keep from snickering at the look on Bobby’s face. Bobby’s face screwed up with exasperation. “Oh, balls,” he muttered and Sam lost it, laughing hard enough to bend over as Bobby left in a huff.

It had been so long since Sam had laughed, and the release of tension was almost painful. He had almost calmed down when a sound from above set him off again, and he staggered, giggling, into Bobby’s office hoping the sounds would be a little more muffled.

His laughter died when he saw Lucifer sitting on Bobby’s desk, flipping through an illustrated copy of Paradise Lost. When he saw Sam he winked, and turned the book like he was looking at a playboy centerfold, a considering purse to his lips.

He’s not real, Sam thought. He’s not.

“That’s just rude,” Lucifer said. “I’m sitting right here.” He looked back down at the book, turning another page. “Would you look at the wings on that one!”

“Stop it,” Sam hissed. “Just--stop.”

“Now why would I want to stop?” Lucifer said. He put the book down and hopped off the desk, stalking over to Sam and circling around. Sam stood still, fists and jaw clenched, and did not follow the devil with his eyes.

A moan echoed down the stairs and Lucifer nodded that way, wagging his eyebrows. “They certainly sound like they’re having fun.”

“I’m not listening to you,” Sam said, and turned to leave, like he could leave a figment. Sure enough, when he turned, Lucifer was standing in his path, chests nearly touching.

“You miss it,” Lucifer murmured. “You remember it so very clearly and you ache with wanting it.” His voice was so quiet, the slick press of tongue to soft palate was louder than the whisper and it made Sam’s spine shiver.

And it wasn’t--Sam wasn’t even remotely tempted. Nothing Lucifer could offer could even remotely compare--and it wasn’t real, besides. It didn’t stop the ache in his chest, the one he felt every time he smelled chocolate or saw cheap porn or realized it was Tuesday, and the one he thought he had finally buried in true Winchester fashion. It didn’t stop the want. But it was enough to make him hesitate, enough to make him not really want to say no.

Lucifer pulled away and Sam turned. Gabriel stood on the carpet between them and the desk, looking just as he had the last time Sam had seen him; shaggy hair, eyes so light brown they shined golden, that smirk.

“Hey, Sammy,” Gabriel said.

“Great,” Sam said. “You’re stuck in my head now, too?”

Gabriel shook his head, laughter still dancing in his eyes. “I’m not in your head, Samsquatch. I’m really here.”

“Can it, dickwad.” Gabriel said, waving away the Snickers wrapper. He walked, that same familiar cocky strut and Sam felt tears prick the corners of his eyes. It’s not fair for his mind to torture him with what he can’t have.

Gabriel pressed close and Sam could smell chocolate and ozone, and underneath it all, fresh lilies. “Fear not,” Gabriel said, reaching up to cup Sam’s face. His hands were warm, and Sam felt a tear fall. “For I bring good news.” And Gabriel guided Sam’s face down, and pressed a kiss to his forehead.

Sam shuddered and the world went white.

When Sam opened his eyes next, which was odd, because Sam didn’t remember closing his eyes, he was looking up at Dean’s concerned face.

Dean hesitated for a moment, but sat back. Sam wondered if finally getting in Cas’s pants had knocked something loose in Dean’s brain when he realized he couldn’t feel it anymore, that jagged edge where Hell had torn asunder. Which meant that—

Sam shot up, looking wildly around the room. “Where is he?”

Dean frowned. “Where is who?”

“Gabriel,” Sam said. “He’s not dead, he was here! He—”Sam stopped, and glared at Dean “What did you do to him?”

“He’s in the panic room.” Dean said.

Of course he was. Sam pushed himself from the couch, intending to go down and let him out, but Dean blocked his way. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“Let me by, Dean,” Sam said.

Dean shook his head. “Not until you tell me what’s going on.”

“Gabriel’s back, Dean.” Sam said. “He fixed me.”

“Sam,” Dean said. “Gabriel’s dead. Whatever that thing is—”

“It’s Gabriel.” Sam insisted. “He. Fixed. Me.”

Dean still shook his head, but he met Sam’s eyes.

“I don’t have time for this.” Sam said, and walked around Dean and down the stairs to the panic room.

Cas was standing outside the door, peering in through the peep hole. “Sam,” he said. “It is Gabriel.”

“I know,” Sam said, and opened the door, walking through into what appeared to be the honeymoon suite and the, Sam checked the matchbook on the counter, Lover’s Lane Motel. Everything was in shades of white, pink, and red, with lush fabrics and a table of overflowing chocolate desserts.

The door shut behind him, and when Sam looked, it had disappeared. Sam, however, wasn’t worried. This was nothing new.

Gabriel, back when he had been just Loki (if you could call a trickster “just” anything). Had liked to hang around and bug Sam when he was alone. Little things, to make sure Sam never got too comfortable. Salting his coffee. Slipping his books off the desk in the library. Awkward stains in awkward places when he was talking to attractive women.

Then, after Tuesday--you don’t spend that much time tracking someone and not get to know them real well. He and Loki had months of memories shared by just the two of them. The little tricks had continued, always enough to make sure Sam knew Loki was watching, but never enough to start the hunt again. Sam had--almost--come to look forward to them.

Then they had been trapped in the television, and found out Loki was Gabriel and though the angel wouldn’t help afterwards, the tricks had turned into treats. Chocolate bars that wouldn’t melt. Enough hot water for a shower, no matter how long Dean had taken, beds that fit his height no matter how he stretched. It was as close to an apology Sam had ever thought he’d get.

Then, one night when Dean was distracted by the latest in a string of pretty faces, Sam had found himself being chatted up by a co-ed with honeyed hair and familiar eyes. Sam had known immediately--Gabriel hadn’t really done much to change his look, and could have been his own twin sister--but Gabriel had never let on that it was him, and Sam was tired, and lonely, and a little drunk, and he had decided to push back, to see how far this went.

He had fucked her against the wall in the alley behind the bar, while she whispered sugar sweet in his ear and angelic names danced on his tongue. After, she had adjusted her skirt, patted his chest, and pulled out a lollypop, tossing a “See ya,” over her shoulder.

Sam didn’t think he actually would. But he had, nearly a month later, once again at the end of his rope, it happened far too often in those days. This time she was older than he was, a bottle blonde cougar who smelled like candy apples and rode him like a bull in the bed of her pickup parked in a field under a Midwest sky. Then there was the redhead in Oakland with freckles dusted like cinnamon sugar, the jazz singer in New Orleans with a voice like velvet and skin like rich dark chocolate, the doublemint twins in Pasadena who were the only ones Dean ever knew about (they had gone back to Sam’s motel and Dean had come home as they were waving goodbye the next morning), and others; every variation of woman under the sun, but all with his same eyes.

It had been a shock to see Gabriel as a man once again, in the motel of the gods. And there had been something in those familiar eyes that was something too close to regret, and altogether too much like love for Sam to want to think about. Then he was dead, killed by Lucifer, and Sam felt one more constant in his life crumble away.

Sam looked back at the room and saw Gabriel. He had lost his jacket somewhere, and was sucking on a candy cane. Sam felt the grin spreading across his face.

“I’ve missed you, jackass,” Sam said.

Gabriel smiled, and that very first co-ed blinked up at Sam from underneath thick lashes. She slowly pulled the candy cane out from her puckered lips, her tongue peeking out to chase the flavor, leaving her mouth full and red and wet. She grinned.

“Then you better come closer,” she said. “So you don’t miss again.”

Sam moved before Gabriel had finished speaking, hands seeking her waist and pulling them flush together, licking his way into her mouth tasting peppermint and power. Gabriel groaned and broke the kiss to lick Sam’s jaw and whisper in his ear. “We have a lot of catching up to do,” she whispered and bit his earlobe.

Sam grunted, and picked Gabriel up as she wrapped her legs around his waist. He threw her on the bed and she laughed. It was infectious, and Sam found himself laughing as he followed her onto the bed, not stopping while they made up for lost time.

***

Castiel knew the minute Gabriel created the pocket dimension. The newly resurrected archangel couldn’t leave the panic room, the angelic sigils Bobby had added were strong enough for that, but within the circle--

Humans had a phase about Angels dancing on the heads of pins. Castiel could no longer quite remember it, but he was pretty sure it was apt.

Dean turned to Castiel, his confusion easy to read. Castiel wondered if it was because he was almost human that other’s expressions were becoming clearer, or if it was because it was Dean.

“What just happened?” Dean asked.

“Gabriel and Sam are--” Castiel paused, looking for the right term. “Reconnecting.”

“Recon--” Dean stopped, looking poleaxed. “I didn’t know they were ‘connecting’ in the first place! I thought Sammy hated him.”

Castiel cocked his head, sensing what he could of the world around him. “Sam feels strongly about him, yes. But not hate.”

Dean frowned and Castiel could feel him thinking. “You mean Sam’s in love with that bag of dicks?”

“He could be,” Castiel said. “But I don’t believe he presents himself to your brother as a ‘bag of dicks.’”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “But he is a bag of dicks.”

“I meant to refer to his anatomy, Dean,” Castiel said, and watched as Dean shuddered. “He died to help you. And since his return he has healed your brother, bringing him real joy. And Gabriel has been courting Sam for some time.” Castiel turned and headed for the stairs. Being human took a lot of upkeep, he was finding, and he was hungry. Dean followed. It was a good sign; if Dean were truly concerned for Sam’s safety, he would never have left the basement.

Castiel gathered the items that caught his fancy. Peanut butter for the texture. Bread for the soft sponginess. Pickles for the sour crunch. Onion for bite. Jam for sweetness. Chips for salt. Grabbing a plate, Castiel began to assemble his sandwich as Dean paced.

“For thinking this would change how I feel about you. You’re a pain in my ass, either way.” Bobby grumbled. Dean lasted not ten seconds before he started to snicker. Bobby blinked at him, and then seemed to realize what he said. “Oh, balls,” He muttered, then threw his hands up when Dean laughed harder. “Shuddup, Idijit,” Bobby muttered, and sat at the table with his sandwich. “It’s about damn time, anyway. You two’ve been dancing ‘round each other since day one.”

“What?” Dean said. “I--”

“It was not possible until now,” Castiel said. “Anything else is our business.”

“Speaking of business,” Dean said. “Gabriel’s back and gettin’ busy with Sam in the panic room.” Bobby froze.

“In a pocket dimension in the panic room,” Castiel added, helpfully.

“What?” Bobby said.

“Oh,” Dean went on as if he hadn’t been interrupted. “And, apparently, the nookie is nothing new.”

“What?!” Bobby dropped the towel and braced his hands on the table. Cas wondered if he should have made Bobby a sandwich as well.

“And he healed Sam, so he’s no longer on a fast train to crazy town.”

“A miracle from Father,” Castiel said around a mouthful of peanut butter and pickles.

The front door opened and Puck and Kurt tumbled into the house, laughing. They froze when they saw the three of them at the table, Kurt going red and Puck snickering. Castiel nodded at them; so they had heard as well. Puck nodded back, but Kurt wouldn’t meet his eyes. Castiel wondered if it was because he used to be an angel. He would have to talk to Kurt soon.

“Are you hungry?” Castiel said, instead. He was getting better at speaking like a human; he didn’t have to lie as long as he could speak around the truth.

“Starving,” Puck said and went for the peanut butter. Kurt leaned in the doorway and Castiel looked away. Now was not the time no place for the talk they needed. Not with another need already bubbling inside. He looked at Dean’s sandwich and wondered how long it would be before they could escape upstairs again.

Puck handed Kurt one of the sandwiches he had made, and sat. Kurt drifted over to sit behind Puck as he ate. They looked good together.

Kurt frowned. “Where’s Sam?”

Dean let his head fall to the table with a thunk and Bobby started to smirk. A moment later there was a pounding on the stairs, and Sam appeared, hair poorly tamed, missing his flannel, and looking well-sated.

“Dude,” Dean said. “That fast?”

“What?” Sam said.

“Pocket dimension, Dean,” Castiel said. To Sam, he said, “How long did Gabriel keep you for this time?”

Sam mumbled something that sounded like “three days,” and ducked around to the sandwich fixings.

Dean looked an odd mixture of proud and disturbed, and opened his mouth, no doubt to tease his little brother more, when Gabriel appeared at the top of the basement stairs, wearing a college co-ed that could be Gabriel’s sister, and Sam’s flannel. Castiel was pretty sure that’s all that Gabriel was wearing.

Gabriel stalked up to Sam, and pulled at him until he turned, and drew him into a deep kiss. Dean’s eyes were wider than Castiel had ever seen them, and even Bobby looked gob smacked. Of course, not knowing Gabriel previously, Puck and Kurt didn’t look at all taken aback, though Puck was checking out Gabriel’s ass. Gabriel broke the kiss, patted Sam’s cheek, and hopped up onto the counter, snapping up a candy bar to eat.

“It is good to see you again, brother,” Castiel said. “You’re looking well.”

Gabriel laughed, delighted. “Oh, this old thing? I just threw it on. Give a moment, and I’ll change into something a little more comfortable.” Gabriel snapped and the co-ed disappeared, replaced by Gabriel’s usual visage--though Castiel noted he was still wearing Sam’s flannel shirt. And a pair of red-heart patterned boxer shorts.

“Dude,” Puck said. He and Kurt were staring at Gabriel with wide eyes. Puck had a smear of jam in the corner of his mouth. Castiel thought about telling him to wipe it away, but Puck would most likely realize on his own once the shock of his brother’s presence faded. “You’re--”

Gabriel smirked. “How did it go? Oh, yes,” Gabriel held up his hands and let his grace shine just enough to make his voice thunder and his presence glow. “Behold and fear not, for I am the Angel Gabriel, and I bring thee News of Great Joy.” The spectacle died and Gabriel resumed munching on his candy bar. “I’ve been on an indefinite sabbatical from my post as messenger,” he said. “But part of my resurrection included a return to my post and my heavenly duties.” Gabriel shrugged. “And since they consist of telling miracles every couple hundred years, and Giving Out His Vengeance--and come on, when was the last time Dad went wrathful, huh?--I’ve got a lot a free time. Oh,” He grinned. “And it means I’m posted on Earth, so I don’t have to deal with Raph when he’s being a major dickwad. Which is always.”

Dean snickered, and turned back to finish his sandwich. Castiel knew he missed how Gabriel’s smile softened and grew warm when he looked at Sam, and the way he snapped his fingers and Sam’s sandwich gained fresh vegetables. Or the fond look of exasperation Sam gave Gabriel when he realized. But Castiel saw, and that was enough for him.